


What Are You Doing

by petalSpitter



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: HAHAHA THE ANGST TRAIN KEEPS ON ROLLING, implied nsfw if you squint and tilt your head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalSpitter/pseuds/petalSpitter
Summary: He shouldn't have gotten attached.  He should have just gotten up and gotten a new hero.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Look at what you've done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494834) by [petalSpitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petalSpitter/pseuds/petalSpitter). 



He couldn’t do it. He could dig the hole under the opal tree, he could lay them down in it, cross above them and a miniature one in their hands-   
  
But he couldn’t bring him to shovel dirt over them. Hell, they just looked like they were sleeping. RGB just wanted to reach down and shake their shoulder, still thinking they’d groan and wake up. But he knew they wouldn’t. The tellyman sighs, kneeling, and delicately he picks up the child, cradling them to his chest. They still held the cross, as if silently reminding him they were gone.    
  
He began walking back towards the Grey Garden, ignoring the fluttering wings of Denial in the corners of his vision.  Maybe he could reverse this. After all, all the garden did was take the Color out of them. Surely Madras could put in back in them. This was just like the Fears all over again. She’d bring out some snake oil again and they’d miraculously wake up again.    
  
Right?   
  
RGB held the child close to his chest, shooting an accusing glare at the foliage of the Grey Garden. As if it was just some misbehaving dog that left a stain on the carpet. Something easy. Something simple. Something fixable. Reversible, even.

He walked like an automaton, gaze and pose unchanging as he traversed a handful of terrains, Fears and Doubts unable to penetrate the cloud of Denial, their insectoid forms and gossamer wings blocking any sort of Emotion from filtering into his mind.

The child had grown cold long before he reached the Marketplace once again, the other unrealized creatures giving him a decent berth as he walked the streets, occasionally stopping to stare at a trinket rumored to give him exactly what he needed. Inspiration. Color. Breath. 

  
But he had nothing to give and the cloud of Denial around him made it rather hard to talk to a merchant. The Denial in the air was so thick he couldn’t look anywhere but towards the House of Paint, his only hope for the child.

  
He just kept walking like a wind-up doll, blindly going where his Denial told him, clinging to a slim, implausible hope that he could fix this. In fact, he was so lost in Denial he didn’t notice the distinct lack of TOby monitoring the Endless Deep.   
  
“Madras?” He asked, his volume weak, and his voice weary.

The metal eye slides to the side and opens like always, Madras’ yellow and pink eye appearing in the glass. “What is it this ti-ah!” She gasps, the metal lids slamming shut just in time for the door to whip open, Madras’ eye wide enough to dwarf her face, mouth hanging open in disbelief. “RGB...”

  
“They’re alright. There was just an accident. Can you give them some Color? I’ll find a way to pay you back.” All the tiny Denial bugs around him fluttered their wings at once, whispering their denial.    
  
“I... RGB, she’s-”   
  
“ _Alright_. She’s alright.” His voice even didn’t sound like his own anymore. He had none of his usual wit or power behind his words, his voice dragging through like air like wet linen across sand, heavy and limp. “I can just return the Dreams and Nightmares. Refund me. I’m sure they won’t even need the three pints.” The tellyman walked in briskly, Madras eyeing the flock of Denial following him into the building.    
  
She huffed, closing the door slowly, and opening a window to let some Denial out. If it ever left.  She wanted to tell him it was up to four pints now, and his refund was impossible. She wanted to be direct and say his Hero was dead and gone. More than anything, she wanted to fan away the cloud of Denial around her love- But perhaps it was best to let him down gently.   
  
RGB had just deposited Hero in the armchair, their Colorless hands still clasping the iridescent cross, as if they wanted to say it too. 

_ ‘Look at this cross, RGB. I’m gone. Remember that cross under the opal tree? I’m gone. Remember all that digging? I’m gone.’ _

“Three Dreams... seven Nightmares...” He muttered to himself, setting the vials on the counter. Madras took them back with a worried look, shoving them on a shelf beneath the counter as she went to the back to fetch the vials of Color.  “Here it is. Three pints.” The armchair waddled to her side, the child laid across the chair, as Colorless and grey as a headstone. 

Maybe seeing it fail would break through his cloud of Denial. Madras pulled out a paintbrush, painting the child’s cheeks back to their tanned color, smearing deep brown on their hair and red all over their coat-

Nothing. No Breath returning to the child, and no break in the man’s cloud of Denial. “RGB... I don’t think this is going to work... She’s a human child, not an-”

“You never know, right?” Needles of desperation entered his voice, stabbing the air with their frantic emotion. 

“RGB...”

“Please.”

She sighs, hanging her head then smiling at the television. “How can I deny a cute screen like yours?”

  
And so she painted, working late into the night, RGB watching closely, the Denial around him just out of reach, whispering how maybe this would work. How that could probably fix this all. Anything they could think of  to deny the Truth.   


Witching hour comes and goes, and Madras gives up for the second time that night, saying that perhaps the child had to dry, and asking RGB to follow her upstairs...   
  


* * *

 

 

She’s forgotten how many pints she’s taken from him. How many pints she’s painted onto the child. How many nights she'd pulled him close, hoping he’ll believe her tonight. How many mornings she’s woken up, the window wide open yet not a single Denial gone. 

  
Until one day she wakes, the room empty except for the sound of his static and her lazy breathing.    
  
  
“I think I’m ready now, dear.” It’s his voice again, smooth and dynamic like a gymnast’s ribbon, but still weighed down by grief.


End file.
